Crossroads
by CheckHands
Summary: Hey all. I've decided to change the one shot to a full blown story about a nameless mercenary taking place a year after the events of Far Cry 2. M for language, violence, and possibly other stuff.


**A/N**: This story takes place a year after the end of Far Cry 2 and will set up for the next series that I have planned.

**DISCLAIMER:** I claim no rights to any products / franchises associated with this story.

**CHAPTER 1**

I lay in one of my safe houses and can't help but wonder what's inside the silver case at my feet. I consider myself a professional and make a point not to ask questions on a transport job, but this is different. That's been apparent ever since I went to a cell tower and got a message to show up at a shack in the middle of the jungle. All the mercs and employers know what the towers are for, but I decided a job is a job.

I got there around noon and watched the area until after dark, wanting to make sure it wasn't someone looking for revenge. A couple of patrols drove past the place, but no one stopped. There was so much vegetation, I don't think they even knew the place existed. When I finally went inside, all I found was the case, a large sack of diamonds, and a note telling me to deliver the case to a remote location along the Kijuju border in 3 weeks.

It's been a week since that night and something big has been happening between the APR and UFLL. Their patrols have nearly doubled and with it, the skirmishes between them. Soldiers from both sides have been sweeping through the Underground's hiding spots and dragging off whomever they find. Presumably for questioning, but no one one's talking.

I tried to open the case once I'd gotten wind of the raids, but the locks are like nothing I've ever seen. They're like digital finger print readers, only not. I'd thought about shooting it open, but decided that anyone willing to spend this kind of money to keep a secret is probably willing to blow it up to keep said secret. What I do know is that it's not guns or drugs or even a body part (I'd once transported the severed head of an Underground leader as part of the APR's "re-education" program). It's something much more dangerous, something much more…valuable.

I look at my watch and realize it's dusk, the start of another day. The sky is a beautiful mix of orange and purple, a stark contrast to the shadowy savannah below. Of all the places I consider safe, this is my favorite. Not only because of the view, but because it sits on the high ground surrounded by mountainous terrain on three side and it's unnoticeable from the road. Can't get much safer than that in a country so violent most of the natives fled in mass and the rest either hide in fear or are part of a militia lead by a power-hungry tyrant.

I jump into my dune buggy, expertly swinging myself into the driver's seat. She roars to life with the turn of the ignition key, her small frame shaking with vigor. After another scan of the deserted road, we speed downhill towards the setting sun.

It's dark by the time I reach my destination, a small bar facing a dilapidated marina. It's dingy, dark, run by mercenaries, and most importantly, hard to find. I open the door and the atmosphere turns thick, like Jell-O. I've been coming here for a year now, but they still don't trust me with anything aside from work and intel.

_Maybe it's because I don't use names or because they're all crippled and past their prime. Honestly, I think it's because you can't trust anyone in this fucking country._

It's empty aside from the regulars. A broad-shouldered European with grey hair who walks with a cane, a skinny Irishman without an arm, and my favorite, a tanned woman in a grungy white tee-shirt with a faded logo on the front. In all my time doing business with her, I've never seen her walk and once asked her to join me outside for a drink. She gave me such a hateful scowl, I smiled and bought it for her anyway. After all it can't be easy being paralyzed from the waist down, especially in a country like this.

I sit down on the stool next to her, both of us facing the bare wall behind the aging counter. She doesn't look at me directly and asks what I'd like to drink, as if there was something aside from the home-made moonshine. I decline, the thought of the stuff making my stomach churn. I tell her I'm calling in a favor, causing her to look me straight in the eyes. Mercs know that in this country a favor kills you faster than a bullet and you don't give them out, let alone cash in on them.

In that moment of admiring her eyes, I realize something. I'd always thought her beauty came from the dullness in her eyes, the look of a dead soul trapped in a living body, but I was wrong. Her beauty is that of a tormented soul trapped in a dead body. After a moment's silence, I tell her that I need to know if anyone is looking for a silver case with something unusual inside.

She turns to face the wall without a hint of comprehension, her face like stone. I pull a handful of diamonds from my pocket and put them on the bar by her hand, thanking her for her help. As I stand to leave, she mumbles for me to be back tomorrow night. Within moments I'm back in my buggy racing down dark roads, a trail of dust rising into the night.


End file.
